The Circle
by Calatrice
Summary: A massacre at an isolated farmhouse leads to adventure, intrigue and romance. The Musketeers must use all their resources to protect one of the greatest intelligence assets in France, The Circle network. His fellow musketeers are getting increasingly concerned about Athos's self-destructive drinking. Athos just wants to pickle himself in peace. And he doesn't want female company...
1. Chapter 1

Their horses' hooves sounded loud as they rode up the narrow track to the farmyard. Athos scanned the hedgerows and the edge of the little wood up on the hill, his right hand hovering over his pistol. It was too quiet for a prosperous farm on a fine spring morning—the field to their right had been abandoned half-ploughed, there were no workers in the yard, and no dogs barking at their approach. He heard the slight click as Aramis cocked his pistol, and without sparing them a glance, could sense his three companions readying themselves for an ambush.

The door of the farmhouse had been battered from its stout bar and hinges. The splintered wreckage lay in the dark doorway. As they dismounted, Athos gestured silently at Porthos, who nodded and headed for the barns across the yard. Leaving Aramis, the finest marksman among them, to keep watch on the lane, Athos and d'Artagnan stepped into the house, swords in hand.

It was dark inside, after the bright morning sun, so they paused a moment to let their eyes adjust. A neat row of candle holders stood on the shelf by the door waiting for an evening the residents would never see. The candles were mostly cheap brown tallow, but there were a few pale beeswax ones for the parlour. None of the wicks had been lit. _We're a day too late_, he realised.

The faint, but distinctive scent of violent death hung in the air of the cramped passageway, the mingled smell of blood, shit, and leaking guts horribly familiar after all these years. The day he no longer felt anything in response to that stench, he would know the wine had done its job at last, hollowing out the final scrap of emotion leaving nothing but empty duty.

They found the first body in the room on their right. An old man, perhaps in his mid-sixties. He was sprawled by the fireplace. Blood had soaked his coat and spilled over the hearth and rug, but his face was unmarked. The scars around his eyes matched the ones Treville had described. This must be Marcel Corday, the man they had been sent to find. The man they had failed to protect. The sense of failure was bitter. Whoever had attacked Corday had used both pistols and swords, Athos noted. Treville would demand a detailed report.

Athos and d'Artagnan moved swiftly from room to room, discovering nine further bodies, each of them savagely slaughtered. The second person he had been told to look for, another elderly man called Jacques Armand, was less easy to identify. They had to cut the coat away from the stiff torso to find the scars on his back, a crisscross of old sword slashes that proclaimed a past life as a soldier. They redressed the body as best they could when they were done.

Athos kept his face impassive, refusing to be distracted from his duty, even by the two pathetic little dairymaids, huddled together in the corner of the scullery. They were both about twelve years old. He would need wine, lots of wine, when he got back to the garrison tonight. D'Artagnan, not yet hardened to such sights, muttered curses and exclaimed in horror at each new atrocity.

D'Artagnan was staring at the little girls, his face blank and eyes glistening with unshed tears. Athos put a hand on the younger man's shoulder, let it rest for a moment, then tugged his companion gently towards the door.

Aramis and Porthos awaited them in the yard, still alert but no longer keyed up for a fight. _Too late for that._

"There's two men in the barn, and one more in the stable," said Porthos. "Farm lads, I reckon—they didn't put up much of a fight." He grimaced. Scythes and pitchforks against muskets and swords. Even Porthos wouldn't chance that if he had any choice.

Athos realised that the others were looking at him, waiting for instructions. _They're going to hate me._

"Back to Paris," he said, keeping his eyes on the horizon, avoiding their shocked faces.

"What? We can't just leave them here!" d'Artagnan lunged forward and grabbed Athos's arm in protest. Athos jerked back, shaking him off. Aramis took one swift glance at their faces and stepped between them.

"Treville needs to know Corday is dead as soon as possible. We don't have time to chase around the countryside playing at being vigilantes." All those tedious lessons in proper conduct when he was a boy, staying calm, hiding his emotions. His parents would be appalled to know how he used his hard-won skills now.

D'Artagnan set his jaw. "It's wrong." _Bloody Gascons. When the last trump sounds on Judgement Day, they'll stop to argue about the timing._

"It's our duty. You and Aramis can stop at the church in the village, tell the Curé. He'll make arrangements."

D'Artagnan opened his mouth to carry on the argument, but Athos turned his back, strode to his horse, and mounted. He urged the animal forward into a steady, mile-eating trot without looking to see if anyone was following him.

They rode the whole way back to the garrison without another word.


	2. Chapter 2

Captain Treville strode into the Cardinal's vast audience chamber unannounced, brushing aside a bleating functionary like the irrelevance he was. The Cardinal was a predator to the bone, and Treville made it a habit to always emphasise his own position of strength at Court whenever they met. Especially on business.

The Cardinal glanced up from the stack of papers on his desk.

"Captain Treville, no doubt your dramatic entrance is due to your eagerness to bring me good news?" His voice was steady, measured, without any hint of emotion. He might have been delivering a sermon in Notre Dame.

_Vile bastard. He knows I'd not be here this quickly if the plan hadn't gone to hell._

"We were too late," Treville replied "Athos reports that every inhabitant of the farm was dead when he arrived."

The Cardinal's cold eyes bored into his.

"You assured me your men would make the swift response required, Captain."

"Athos said they were killed yesterday — before we had any warning. There was nothing we could have done to prevent it."

"On the contrary Treville, you could have done a great deal. For twenty five years you and your predecessors have insisted that the greatest intelligence asset France possessed could be protected by secrecy. But your stratagem has failed, disastrously. We have nothing left but a farm full of corpses. If you had followed my council and moved Marcel Corday to a secure location…"

"Do you think I didn't try?" Treville said, his voice hoarse with anger. "Every time I saw him, as often as I dared to visit, I pleaded with him to come to Paris where we could protect him. When he refused me, I offered him his choice of every other garrison in France. Corday was stubborn."

"Then you should have employed the force that you so frequently remind me is at your command, Captain," said the Cardinal.

"And he would have stopped working for us all the sooner. How could we have forced his co-operation?"

"I believe you said he was a father?"

Treville could see no hint of compassion in those cold eyes. The Cardinal was always ruthless—indeed, his position made it impossible for him to be anything else. But this suggestion was something dredged from centuries back, a barbarity that had no place in the modern world. "You would have held his children to ransom?" He made no attempt to keep the revulsion from his voice.

"Whereas you, Captain, gave them the freedom to end up slaughtered in their own home. Forgive me if I fail to see the advantage in that."

Treville sighed and rubbed his temples, trying to drive away the nagging start of a headache. "Can your people replicate Marcel's methods?" he asked. "I know they've been opening and copying the letters for years."

"I regret to say that all of their efforts have been fruitless. Corday's skill in extracting and using the information from such diverse sources is one that my subordinates do not seem capable of acquiring. The Circle network is lost to us without the genius who served as its hub."

"So what do we do now?"

"I must have the information the Circle provided — it is a vital tool of our domestic and foreign policy. If the subtle intelligence-gathering methods that have been so successful in the past are unavailable, it seems we must return to more traditional ways." _Knives in dark alleys, blackmail, torture._ Treville wanted nothing so much as to run away. Like his men. Athos would be halfway to oblivion by now, from the look on his face when he finished his report. As for the others, they were probably out brawling some place, doubtless he'd find out where when the bills for damages came in.

The Cardinal pointed at a chair. "You may as well sit, Captain. This will take a great deal of time."


	3. Chapter 3

The bloody sun had come up again. Athos pulled the blanket up to cover his face, trying to avoid any unnecessary movement of his pounding head. He'd run out of wine a few hours ago. Probably hours anyway. Not more than a day, for certain. His mouth tasted foul and his belly cramped and burned — he should get better wine next time. After a few uncomfortable minutes, the merciful black unconsciousness claimed him again.

The next time he woke, there was a terrible pounding in his ears. He groaned and buried himself in the greasy pillow.

"Athos, wake up! We know you're in there," damn Porthos, playing nursemaid again.

Ignore them, that was the plan. Let them wear themselves out so he could rot in peace.

The pounding got louder, changing from the thumping of fists to a series of well-placed kicks. The door, not designed to withstand such a determined assault, gave way after a half dozen blows.

Someone coughed. "Dear God it stinks!" Aramis of course. Fastidious bastard.

"Is he alive?" d'Artagnan asked.

"He will be in a moment." The glee in Porthos' voice should have been fair warning, but Athos' reflexes were dulled by however many days and bottles it had been this time.

The bucket of freezing water took him completely by surprise. His hair, clothes and bed were completely soaked. He sat up with a hoarse roar of outrage, only to collapse again, vomiting bile on the floor as his abused head and stomach protested at the sudden move.

"Mind the boots," said Porthos, stepping back to avoid getting splashed.

"You've ruined my bed," grumbled Athos surveying his sodden pillow and dripping blanket.

"It smells like a blacksmith's armpit," said Aramis "probably because you've been sleeping in it. I knew you'd be a wreck if we left you alone, but this is low even by your standards." He looked around the room, taking in the piles of empty bottles, crusted plates, and scatter of dirty linen discarded on the floor. Life as a musketeer had given Athos the chance to see men in every possible state of inebriation, but Aramis was the only fastidious drunk he'd ever met. Even after three bottles of brandy, Aramis still took the time to fold his clothes neatly before he collapsed in a heap.

Athos glared up at his grinning tormentors. "You don't look that good yourselves."

Aramis shrugged and touched the yellowing bruise on his cheekbone. "A little discussion with some of the Red Guards, the night we got back," he said. "They look far worse, I promise you."

"A day like that, and you picked a fight with the Red Guards?"

"Wanted someone I could enjoy hitting," said Porthos. "I was tired, and they were easiest to find." His left eye was puffy and partially closed. D'Artagnan, who looked to have come off worst, was sporting a split lip and a group of bruises on his neck that showed the clear imprint of the hands that had tried to strangle him.

"I'm sure Treville was thrilled," said Athos.

"We don't know, he's been in conference with the Cardinal since we got back and gave our report. Corday's intelligence network must have been very important to both of them," said Aramis.

"After three days of meetings with the Cardinal, Treville will probably give us a prize for giving the Red Guards a kicking," said Porthos, always the optimist.

Athos tried to reconcile his hazy memories of the time between reporting to Treville and the present with a full three days. He remembered getting back to his room and starting the second bottle before he'd even taken his boots off. But after that, it was just a blur of drinking, passing out, and more drinking. Better wine next time, that was the answer.

"Treville sent us a message this morning — he wants to see us as soon as he gets back," said d'Artagnan.

Athos groaned and got up. As usual, the prospect of something to do, rather than wallowing in his own misery, made a significant improvement to his general state. He clutched a chair to stay upright, but he'd be able to let it go in another minute or two. Probably.

Aramis looked at Athos, satisfying himself that Athos was now sufficiently alert to emerge from his room under his own power.

"We'll leave you to get dressed," he said.

"Don't be too long," said Porthos with an evil grin, "or we'll come back and fetch you." He picked up the discarded bucket and swung it to and fro, by way of an unsubtle hint.

Athos glared at their retreating backs. He fumbled about and unearthed a bag of clean laundry from the corner by the window. If Treville wanted to see them this morning, there was no time for a trip to the public bathhouse in the next street, so he made do with a bucket of chilly water. Once he was dressed, he spent a couple of minutes piling discarded bottles into a heap so large that even he felt a twinge of concern.

He propped the ruined door back in the frame as he left, stopping at the Blanchards' house next door to arrange for them to attend to repairs and cleaning.

Madame Blanchard sighed as she watched Athos trudge up the street towards the garrison. "Such a fine looking man, and so well-spoken. If only he took more care of himself."

"He's a soldier," replied her husband, counting the coins in his hand and wishing he'd asked for more now he'd had the chance to see the state of Athos' room. "He'll probably be dead by tomorrow."


	4. Chapter 4

Joan had never been to Paris before, but her father had made her learn the directions from the city gate to the musketeer garrison by heart. Every day for a whole year following her twelfth birthday, she had recited the route to him before bedtime.

She stared at the huge open gate in front of her, gathering her courage. After everything that had happened, surely she could not fail now? If they turned her away then she, Luc and Clotilde would be consigned to whatever fate Paris had in store for friendless destitutes.

The children's hands were trembling in hers. As hungry and weary as she felt, she knew that they were in a far worse state. Driven by grief, fear and rage she had forced them to walk far further than they should each day.

Joan peered at the crowd in the yard. She couldn't see Captain Treville anywhere, but it was impossible to be sure at this distance.

There was no sense in delay. Joan squared her shoulders, gave the childrens' hands a reassuring squeeze, and led them limping through the gate.

She got barely twenty feet into the courtyard before a young man appeared in front of her.

"May I help you Madame?" he said. His voice was friendly and his smile kind, although the swollen cut on his lip and the ugly ring of bruises on his throat suggested that he was not universally popular.

"I need to speak to Captain Treville," said Joan firmly. Quaking inside, she kept her back straight, head up and eyes locked on his. She had taken control of a household and farm at fourteen, commanding the servants and labourers at home, haggling with tradesmen and merchants in the town. She had been projecting an authority she didn't feel confident in for ten years now.

"I'm afraid he isn't here. Can I help you? My name is…"

"I must see Captain Treville," said Joan "It is a matter of great importance. I assure you, he will want to see me." However charming this young man was, everything about him, from his youthful face to his shiny new boots said 'new recruit'. She didn't have time to talk her way through every rank in the regiment. If not Treville, she had to talk to someone senior as soon as possible. It had been four days now. Unbidden, the memory of the twisted bodies of her father and their servants came back to her. _I will not cry_, she thought.

The young man stared at her, then looked at three older musketeers sat at a table nearby.

"Trouble?" asked the nearest of the group. He was strikingly handsome, and his carefully tended appearance suggested he knew it.

"This lady says she needs to see the Captain."

The handsome one looked at Joan, and in spite of her best efforts, she shrank under his scrutiny. She had done her best to clean them all up at the pump in the square, but there had been no way to disguise the mud stains and tears that the four-day flight had inflicted on their clothes. Clotilde's cheap hand-me-down shoes were almost worn through, and Luc had a huge rip in the back of his coat. The hem of her own skirt was six inches deep in mud splatters.

"I'm afraid the Captain has been called away on urgent matters of State," the handsome one said. "He isn't likely to be able to see you for some days, but we can help you to find somewhere to stay until then." His voice was soft, soothing, the sort of tones you might use to calm a frightened child, or an animal.

"No! I must see him immediately. He _needs_ to know I am here." Joan couldn't think of any strategy at the moment but standing her ground. She had to stay calm at all costs. If she started to cry, or to get hysterical, they would have the perfect excuse to take her away.

The handsome one looked at his companions and shrugged. "Do you have any suggestions?"

"What could she want to see the Captain about anyway?" asked the young one.

The biggest man at the table, who had an amiable expression made slightly alarming by the slanting scar over one eye, looked up in surprise.

"What do people do for fun in Gascony? She's hardly the first woman to turn up here."

"But what do we do?" said the young one.

"Find out who the father is. If he's alive, we shake him down for some cash. If he's not, we take a collection. Don't normally need Treville for that though." He looked kindly at Joan and the children. "Tell us who he is and where you're staying and we'll come and see you when it's sorted. You don't want to wait around here all day."

"I'm not pregnant," Joan snapped. "I have to see Captain Treville." Her father had told endless tales of his life as a soldier. Courage, gallantry, and hell-raising had featured heavily. Common sense, now she thought about it, had not been a significant element.

"Let her stay," said the man sitting in the shadows at the end of the table. His companions turned and gaped at him. "If she's come to talk to Treville about a pregnancy, she's either months too early, or years too late," the quiet voice continued. "She seems to have endured considerable hardship to reach him, so I assume that her business with Treville may well be of some importance."

Joan stared at the figure in the shadows, but couldn't see him clearly. His accent was impeccable, a nobleman's carefully cultured tones. Would this be enough to sway the others?

Apparently it was. The handsome one stood up and gestured to his place at the table.

"Would you care to sit down, Madame?"

The place he indicated was in full view of the gateway and the street beyond. Joan glanced nervously over her shoulder at the passers-by. What if she was seen?

"You can sit under the arch, if you prefer," said the man in the shadows. "No one will see you there."

Joan led the children into the shelter of the arch and settled them on the bench. She sat down between them, pulling them close against her. She could feel Luc and Clotilde trembling, probably from hunger and exhaustion. She hadn't shared her fears with them. They were too young for explanations, and the promise of the garrison as a safe haven had been a vital tool when she was forcing them to walk the seemingly endless miles to get here.

The quiet one who had spoken up for her had his head down, his broad-brimmed hat hiding his face. He made no move to speak to her further, or even to look at her.

She felt a hand on her shoulder, and started. He head whipped around and she saw the scarred man standing behind her. She must have looked as terrified as she felt, because he snatched his hand away and took a pace back, putting a welcome distance between them.

"I'm sorry. Didn't mean to scare you. Just wanted to know if you'd like some food," he said softly.

"If you please Monsieur," she said, trying not to sound too desperate.

He nodded and strode off, returning a few moments later with a platter of bread, cheese and apples.

Joan carefully tore a small chunk of bread for each of the children, then one for herself. "Not too fast now, or you'll make yourselves sick," she cautioned as Luc and Clotilde snatched the morsels and began to eat. She turned to the scarred man. "Thank you Monsieur, you are very kind."

"I remember what it's like to be hungry," he said. "I haven't forgotten what it looks like either. When did you last eat?"

"Two days ago," said Joan, when she had swallowed her mouthful. "I ran out of money." She hadn't dared to stop at the inns on the main road to Paris, in case they were spotted, so she had been forced to buy food at farms and cottages. The people had little food to spare and they had driven hard bargains.

"I'm Porthos," he said. He indicated each of his companions in turn. "Aramis, d'Artagnan and Athos." Aramis gave a small bow with an elegant flourish. D'Artagnan nodded and smiled. Athos didn't respond at all. Porthos rolled his eyes. "Don't mind him, he's always like this when he's been drinking."

Porthos was now looking at her expectantly, waiting for her to introduce herself. She looked up at him, torn with indecision. Secrecy, or trust?

"Joan Corday," she said.

The effect was immediate. She suddenly had the full attention of all four men.

"Madame Corday," said Athos. "Our condolences for your recent losses." He still didn't look up, staring instead at his hands, which were resting on the table in front of him. As he spoke his right hand moved to his chest as though he were reaching for something, then clenched into a fist and returned empty to the tabletop.

They knew. Joan felt the careful armour that she had built around her grief over the last few days starting to crumble under their sympathetic gaze. Porthos reached forward and hesitantly laid a hand on her shoulder.

"Mademoiselle, not Madame," she said. "Marcel Corday was my father."

"And these two?" asked Aramis, nodding towards the children.

"Luc is my brother. Clotilde is, was, our cook's youngest daughter." Perfectly truthful, as far as it went. No need tell them more than that, she'd let the dead keep their sins to themselves.

D'Artagnan came to stand beside Porthos. "We came to your farm," he said, his brown eyes full of sorrow, "but we were too late."

"Our information was lacking," said Athos "we had no idea that anyone might have survived, or we would have stayed to help you."

"We left that night," said Joan. "As soon as I had gathered a few items for the journey. We stayed off the road, walked all through that first night, you couldn't have found us." She would be haunted by memories of that headlong flight for the rest of her days. Every shadow had been a source of terror, every sound had triggered blind panic. If only she had kept her wits a little more, packed more food, more blankets, had the courage to search her father's body and retrieve his purse...

"You walked," said Aramis. "All the way here?"

Joan nodded. Even sunk deep in weariness and misery, she couldn't help the little burst of pride caused by the new respect in his eyes.

"Treville will be back soon," he said. "On my honour, I will make sure he knows you are here as soon as possible."

Two hours passed, measured by the regular tolling of the many church bells in the city. Luc and Clotilde ate the meagre ration Joan allowed them, then fell into an exhausted sleep, folding their arms on the rough table to act as pillows. In spite of her determination to stay alert, Joan could feel her head growing heavy too.

There was a sudden commotion in the gateway, as a party of horsemen rode into the courtyard. Joan looked up and recognised the lead rider. Captain Treville had returned at last.

She almost fell in her eagerness to get up off the bench, but managed to struggle away without disturbing either of the children. She darted forward, only to find a grim-faced musketeer with a hand on his dagger blocking her path.

"Captain," she called desperately, her voice cracking with urgency. Treville turned towards her. For a moment he looked puzzled, but after a terrifying instant where Joan thought all was surely lost, he recognised her. Astonishment and relief mingled on his face. He reached forward, pushed the musketeer aside, and grabbed her hand.

"You four," he said, gesturing at Porthos and the others as he dragged her to the nearby staircase. "My office. Now!"


	5. Chapter 5

The first time Treville saw Joan Corday, she was a solemn-faced girl about six years old, peeping through the banisters of her father's farmhouse to catch a glimpse of the strange guest. They were not introduced—Marcel was a businesslike man who did not expect Treville to take any interest in his domestic arrangements. The entire visit, like every one before it, consisted of long meetings with Marcel and his old comrade Jacques, who acted as his reader and scribe.

Treville tried to visit once a year, as Marcel's previous contact at Court had done. Each visit was explained at the garrison as a personal matter, a chance to meet up with a valued friend and mentor. This was not so far from the truth—Treville remembered Corday's glittering career in the old King's service, cruelly cut short when a musket exploded in his face and ruined his sight.

Twelve years ago Treville had been surprised to find the little girl seated on a hard chair in her father's study. Eyes downcast, ankles neatly crossed as if she was waiting for a lesson. "This is Joan," Marcel said, gesturing vaguely in her direction. Enough of his sight remained to let him make out large objects in bright sunshine. In the study, with dim light coming from a small window, he was effectively blind. "Jacques took sick this winter—around Epiphany—Doctor said it was a stroke. He's much recovered now, but he's lost the use of his right hand, and his speech is slurred. She reads and writes for me now."

The visit didn't prosper after that. Treville saw his duty clear: the correspondence for one of the most important intelligence networks in the country could not possibly be placed in the hands of a twelve-year-old, let alone a female, no matter how neat her handwriting, or how fine her reading. As always, his arguments ran aground on Marcel's immovable stubbornness. Ever since he lost his sight, Marcel's greatest fear had been the loss of his independence. He would not consider any possible alternatives Treville suggested.

Every year after that, Joan attended all their meetings. For the first few occasions, she acted purely as her father's agent, reading and writing at his request, but making no contribution on her own account. Gradually though, her confidence and her participation increased. By the time she was twenty or so, Treville suspected she was in full control of the Circle network, and that Marcel had largely retired from the day-to-day operations that kept it running.

Once his initial shock at Joan's involvement had worn off, he had no complaints. The quality of the information provided by the Circle was superb, giving a detailed view of the economic and political state not only of some of the more remote and troublesome regions of France, but also the many other nations that had a trading connection with the huge number of merchants, bankers and investors who had found a profitable place in the Circle's ranks.

He'd even taken the trouble to show his appreciation, bringing her small gifts each visit. Sensible, practical things, that couldn't be misinterpreted by her prickly father. Treville conducted his love life with the same calm discretion that distinguished all his public conduct. He had no desire to end up being pursued for breach of promise by a woman young enough to be his daughter.

It was the perfect system. There were no spies stealing secrets and skulking in dark corners, just successful businessmen, swapping useful titbits of publicly available information. Grain prices, good harvests and crop failures, legal disputes, political wrangles and taxes. An endless flow of letters streamed in and out of the little study. As the members of the Circle supplied information, they were also paid in it—making fortunes from shrewd deals that only increased their eagerness to participate in the network. Only Marcel and Joan, at the centre of the Circle, reading all of the correspondence, had the opportunity to piece together all of the facts into one hugely valuable resource.

Treville used the Circle's intelligence for military matters. His interest lay in reports of French noblemen or neighbouring states who were amassing supplies that might signal preparation for rebellion or war. Warnings of impending food shortages, that could breed riots among the peasantry or the urban poor, were also welcome when they came far enough in advance for local troops to be well prepared.

The Cardinal, by contrast, sought knowledge of political instability or financial weakness in his opponents, that he exploited in his normal, ruthless manner. He planned to replace the Circle with a hand-picked team of agents. Treville had crossed swords, often personally, with the sort of people that the Cardinal thought made useful agents. He had no desire to do so again – the morgue (and the bottom of the river) were full enough already.


	6. Chapter 6

Treville stood behind his desk and gazed at the young woman sitting before him. Her dress was tattered, and she was hollow-eyed from lack of sleep. Nonetheless, she sat ramrod straight, her face a mask of steely determination. He had offered his condolences, for what good that did. Guilt and shame gnawed at him as he looked at her slight figure. As a gentleman, he was honour-bound to offer her safety and shelter in this time of grief; his oaths to the King and to France demanded otherwise.

"Do you have any idea why you were attacked?" he asked. "We got word, much too late, that someone had hired brigands for the job, but we had no clue as to the motive."

"It was the Chevalier family—they're merchants in Nantes," she said. "They received early information about contracts to supply Navy ships. They realized that if they could keep it to themselves, they could make a fortune—thousands of livres."

"But the information had already been sent to the Circle," said Athos. "So they followed the letter back to your father's farm, and killed everyone there to try to keep the secret."

Money. Just business. He and the Cardinal had racked their brains, imagining deep plots by Huguenots, Spanish agents, Marie de Medici, and even all of them together in some diabolical alliance. A bunch of greedy, jumped-up shopkeepers had never even entered their heads. Treville's fingers itched, for a sword, a gun. Oh they would pay. He'd throw them to the non-existent mercies of the Cardinal with a light heart and clear conscience.

"How did you escape?" asked Aramis.

"As soon as I read the letter, I was afraid," said Joan. "I could see how much was at stake for the Chevaliers, and they have a reputation. Bad things happen to people who cross them. I tried to talk to father about it, but..."

"Your father never listened to anyone," said Treville. Bloody fool.

She nodded, her grief etched on her face. "When I saw the riders coming down the lane, I grabbed the children and ran. If you follow the hedge line up the hill to the woods, you can't be seen from the lane. We hid in the woods until they left, then I went down to see what had become of everyone." She drew in a long, shuddering breath. "I want them to pay for this. The Chevaliers and their hired murderers."

This was the best opportunity Treville was going to get. "Joan," he said, keeping his eyes on her face, watching for her reaction, "if I find you a safe house here in Paris, can you keep the Circle going? You could give us the evidence we need to deal with the Chevaliers, to get justice for your family." That last was probably a convenient fiction. Richelieu would see no need for anything as trivial as evidence in his relentless pursuit of those who had caused him such inconvenience.

"If you can keep me, and the children safe, then I can," she replied. Her voice was steady, but he could see the tension in her body, her jaw tight and her fingernails digging into the palms of her hands. He knew the signs well—clinging to her fear and fury had got her this far, and now she didn't know how to let go. He'd seen this in so many of his men over the years, and exploited it to drive them on.

He smiled at her. A terribly inappropriate response under the circumstances, but his sense of relief was so overwhelming he couldn't help himself. "Anything you need, you can have. Just ask."

"In that case Captain Treville, I'm afraid I need my books," she said.

"Books?" asked Aramis.

"We kept a set of ledgers, containing all the significant information that we extracted from the letters sent by members of the Circle. All indexed and cross-referenced. We make deductions about the current situation by looking for patterns in the old data and comparing them with the new information."

"So without the books, the Circle is useless," said Athos.

"Not useless," said Joan "but less effective, certainly."

"How many ledgers are there?" asked Treville.

"Forty. Most of them are hidden in the study. A few of the older ones, that we use less often, are hidden elsewhere in the house. We ran out of room in the secret compartments in the study three years ago."

"And how large, exactly, are these ledgers?" said Athos. "Small notebooks, church bibles?"

"We used account books, made by the stationer in town. They're about six by eight inches, a hundred and sixty pages in each."

"So they'll fit in saddlebags then," said Athos. "Describe where they are hidden, and we'll ride to fetch them for you tomorrow."

"No," said Treville. "We can't afford mistakes. Everything she needs must be collected in one trip—the risk of discovery is too great if we keep going back. Joan will have to go with you."

He knew this wouldn't go down well with Athos. Even now he'd got rid of that damned locket, the man still couldn't shake off the malign influence of that she-devil of a wife. In a regiment notorious for its womanising, Athos stood out as a man who avoided almost all female contact, unless the woman in question was safely unavailable. A young unmarried woman of good family who needed his help was the stuff of Athos's worst nightmares.

"And how can four musketeers ride out of Paris with a young woman, without attracting attention?" objected Athos.

"A disguise," said Aramis, looking amused at his friend's discomfort "Joan, can you ride?"

"Of course."

"If you'll forgive the indelicacy, can you ride astride a horse, or only on a side-saddle?"

For a moment a flicker of a smile crossed Joan's face. "I can ride astride. My father didn't like me riding. When I was fifteen, we had an argument, and I threatened to run away. He sold my pony to stop me."

"And did it stop you?" said Aramis.

"Well, I didn't run away—there wasn't anywhere to run to. But I used to take the farm horses to ride. We didn't have any saddles for them at all."

"I do love a rebellious woman," he said, with an easy smile that Joan apparently couldn't help but return. Treville shook his head in resignation. He had no fears for Joan's virtue; wide as Aramis's taste in women was, it didn't extend to complete innocents. But somehow Aramis could never resist any opportunity to use that easy charm of his, and it worked almost every time. As a Captain and a confidante of the King, Treville had plenty of success with women, but he still couldn't suppress a flare of jealousy when he saw Aramis at work.

"If you'll come with me, I have a friend who can help you," said Aramis. "I promise, no one will recognise you when she's done."

Joan looked at him, considering. He looked back, the picture of charming innocence.

"Alright," she agreed "but what about the children?"

"There's a woman, Thérèse Clemenceau. She's kind, and trustworthy. We'll ask her to come and take care of them," said Treville. The men smirked, and he glared back at them, daring them to comment on his relationship with the merriest widow in Paris.

"Very well," said Joan.

"That's settled then," said Treville "leave at dawn tomorrow, and you should be back here with the books by nightfall."

Aramis bowed Joan out of the room with his normal flourish. Porthos and d'Artagnan followed. Athos, inevitably, lingered.

"You knew she was involved in this Circle of yours?" asked Athos, staring at Treville.

"I did."

"But you didn't tell us to look for her, only Corday and Armand. Why?"

Treville shifted uncomfortably behind his desk. He was the commander, but Athos in this mood always put him in mind of a cat that had cornered a mouse.

"Corday always insisted that her involvement be kept a secret between us. He thought it would protect her."

Athos snorted, his contempt for the late Marcel Corday plain on his face. Treville rubbed his tired eyes; he'd come back here to go to bed after a three-day meeting with Richelieu, not to be on the receiving end of an interrogation from one of his own men.

"I didn't see any reason to mention Joan. If you had reached the farm in time, it would only have angered Corday. And if you were too late, I assumed she would be dead with the rest."

"It seems you underestimated her," said Athos still glaring. "When we have fetched these books of hers, what then?"

Three days of planning because the Circle had died with Corday, and now he was expected to come up with a new scheme in half an hour. God he hated his own men sometimes.

"I'll set her up in a house in Paris. Discretely of course. Give her a new identity that won't connect her to Corday or to us."

That suggestion, that Joan would be housed well away from the garrison, seemed to be the assurance that Athos had been seeking. With one last searching look at his Captain, he turned and left. Hopefully to go and get some sleep, not more wine; Treville had been Athos's commanding officer long enough to have a good idea of how the man had spent his time these last three days.


	7. Chapter 7

Aramis walked through the quiet streets with Joan by his side, her face and body completely covered by a grey cloak with a large hood. He led the way to the broad and elegant streets that had been laid out according to King Louis's plans for a glorious new Paris.

Turning the final corner, he heard music. A harpsichord being played by a master, a rippling cascade of intricate harmonies. He smiled, remembering those long-ago evenings by the fireside at his parent's home, when he had first learned to love music. He walked up to the smart, freshly painted door and knocked gently.

The music stopped. A few moments later, the door opened, revealing a slim elegant young man wearing plain but fashionable clothes.

"William, it's wonderful to see you," said Aramis. "I apologise for the hour, but I need to ask a great favour. May we come in?"

William stood in the doorway, his face troubled. He stared at Aramis for a moment, then shrugged slightly, turned, and let them follow him upstairs.

The main chamber of William's apartment was exactly as Aramis remembered; teetering piles of sheet music heaped in odd corners, lovingly polished musical instruments carefully placed on shelves and tables. A harp stood in one corner, and a magnificent harpsichord had pride of place by the window. As a sort of grudging afterthought, a couple of chairs and a low plain table stood by the fireplace for the rare visitors who were allowed to enter William's home.

William stood in the middle of the room, his weight shifting from foot to foot, rubbing the knuckles of his left hand with the callused fingers of his right. Aramis hadn't seen that gesture for years, and felt a twinge of guilt – these days he normally saw William at Court, completely absorbed in his music. It made it far too easy to forget the strain on William's nerves of maintaining such a perfect mask for so many years.

Joan was looking at Aramis and William in turn, confused and looking as though she was starting to get a little frightened. He had promised her a disguise, and brought her here with no explanation. Lurid tales of what happened to good girls lost in the wicked streets of Paris were doubtless preying on her mind.

"William, this is Joan — I'm afraid I can't give you her full name. Joan, this is William Thornton, one of the finest musicians in Paris."

Good manners prevailed, as they almost always did. William bowed gracefully, and Joan bobbed a nervous curtsey in response.

"William, Joan has put herself in grave danger in His Majesty's service." Best to lay it on thick in such circumstances, and an appeal to patriotism was always a good start. "We need to get her out of Paris at dawn, without anyone recognising her. Can you help?"

William hesitated.

"I'm sorry. I wish I could have come to you first, asked you in private. But there was no time." Aramis pleaded.

William sighed, then turned his attention to Joan. "May I take your cloak Madame?"

Having relieved Joan of the bulky cloak, William looked Joan up and down, making her even more nervous than she had been before. Aramis watched as his friend assessed Joan, considering her face, her height, the width of her shoulders, her figure. He remembered doing the same thing himself, to another young woman, so long ago now.

"I can help," said William.

"Thank you," said Aramis. He hadn't relished the idea of going back to the others and admitting his disguise scheme had come to nothing.

"Joan," he said. "William will lend you a suit of clothes, and help you dress yourself as a boy."

She stared at him, open mouthed with shock. "It will never work. I can't…"

"Oh, it will work," said William "People see what they expect. Breeches and a coat make you a man."

Joan turned and looked at William. At his slight frame, smooth skin and soft jawline. William smiled. "It's worked for me for seven years now."

As William (always William, forget Celeste had ever been) led Joan to the bedroom to help her dress, Aramis settled down in one of the chairs to wait. Odd snatches of conversation came from behind the closed door.

"I can't breathe!"

"It needs to be tighter, or the coat won't hang properly."

"Why do they wear this?"

"Keep your head up."

"Ouch!"

"Have a look in the mirror, see what you think."

"I'm not sure. I don't look myself, I suppose."

"Don't have your hands like that. Keep them by your sides."

The bedroom door opened at last and William emerged, looking much more relaxed. Behind him was... It was hard to judge really. Aramis knew the secret after all, and that made it almost impossible to see what an ordinary observer would. The clothes were good – William had great experience there of course. It was the posture, the movement and gestures that didn't quite fit. Still, all they needed was something that would pass at a casual glance as they rode past. She would do.

An hour later, Aramis walked Joan back to the garrison, carrying a bag containing her tattered dress and corset. Joan walked awkwardly in the unfamiliar clothes. To be fair though, the one time he'd had to wear a skirt and corsets (an adventure he had decided never to mention to his friends), he'd barely been able to breathe, let alone walk.

"How did you and William meet?" she asked, almost as soon as they had left the apartment. An inevitable question, he supposed.

"He – always he, even in my head, to stop careless mistakes – is my cousin. He always loved music. When we were children, he learned to play every instrument he could lay his hands on, memorised every piece of music. I used to spend hours listening to him play. It was all he ever thought about, cared about, his whole life. But of course once he turned fifteen, his parents' thoughts turned to marriage. They were kind, they only wanted to do their best, their duty as they saw it, but William grew more and more distressed. All their talk of a husband, children, running a home; they might as well have proposed a lifetime in prison. We'd always been close, only a few months apart in age, and she, he, confided in me. In the end, he decided to run away. I helped to stage an elopement with a fictitious lover, and helped William to find lodgings and contacts with musicians in Paris. Once people heard him play, that part was simple at least."

"And is he happy?"

"Yes, of that, I'm certain. His talent, his genius is a truly a gift from God. It would be a sin to let it wither away in some country manor. Every few months, he writes to his parents. I send the letters, when I'm away from Paris so they can't be traced back to him."

"And no one has ever guessed?"

"No. His profession helps. No one expects a musician to be a hulking great brute of a man. And he claims to be English—everyone knows they're a bit peculiar. The illusion is easier to maintain in a salon than it would be on the streets."

They turned the corner and drew close to the garrison gate. Joan put her hand on Aramis's arm.

"Thank you for helping me, and for trusting me," she said.

"You are most welcome," he replied. "I suggest you sleep in the shirt and breeches tonight. They'll look more convincing with a few creases. Goodnight."

He stood in the yard and watched to make sure she got safely back to the guest room she was sharing with the children, then headed for his own bed. He could get maybe five hours sleep before breakfast.


	8. Chapter 8

Joan went into the bedroom as quietly as she could in the ridiculous boots William had lent her. They were a bit too big and slipped about on her feet as she walked. Even more annoying was the squeaking and creaking as her leather-clad legs rubbed together every other step. She was never going to get the hang of walking in breeches—the chafing was driving her mad already. If walking was this bad, what would hours in the saddle do?

Thérèse, a middle-aged plump and pretty treasure who the children had taken an instant liking to, was sitting on a plain wooden chair in the corner reading a book. Joan's first instinct was to wrap herself tightly in the cloak and pretend nothing was amiss, but that would look ridiculous, so she hung the cloak on the peg by the door and stood there, feeling horribly exposed. Thérèse beamed at her.

"I see that rogue Aramis hasn't lost his touch," she said.

Joan squirmed. "I needed a disguise," she said. "Aramis said it would work."

"Oh it will lovey," said Thérèse "but it's strange how they always think of breeches. Never, say, an old woman…"

Joan could feel the tide of scarlet blush spreading up her neck and over her cheeks. Thérèse chuckled kindly. "Oh, I'm only teasing you. They're fine boys, those four. You'll come to no harm with them to look out for you." She rose from her chair. "You try and get a little sleep. I'll wake you when it's time. In the meantime, I think I'll go and see if the good Captain would care for some company." She gave a wicked little smile and a wink as she slipped out of the door.

Luc and Clotilde huddled together in the bed, holding hands, with their sandy hair spread out on the pillows. They were still wearing their dirty clothes, as nobody in the garrison had anything that fitted them. She'd have to do something about that soon. It seemed terribly wrong to go off and leave them here tomorrow, but there really was no choice, and they could hardly be in a safer place.

Joan shrugged out of the coat and snuggled into the bed. A few hours sleep wouldn't be nearly enough to shake off the bone-weariness she felt, but it would have to do for now.

When she came down to the courtyard a little before dawn, Joan found Aramis and his friends sat at the same table as yesterday. She walked up to them, feeling horribly self-conscious in her coat and breeches.

"Good morning, I hope you slept well?" said Aramis, with a welcoming smile.

"Yes, thank you. It was wonderful to have a proper bed again." Sleeping out under the stars had always sounded like an amazing adventure in Father's stories. Now she had tried it, and had learned that the whole course of human progress could be explained by the simple desire to avoid ever having to spend a miserable night cold, wet, and lying on a tortuous spot entirely composed of jagged stones and sharp sticks.

Porthos gave Aramis a resigned stare. "Is that a disguise she's wearing, or just you showing off?"

Joan flinched and d'Artagnan did his best to come to her rescue. "I think it looks really good. Convincing, I mean. Very convincing."

Porthos sniggered.

Athos, who hadn't even looked at her, stood up and started to walk away toward the stable. "Finish your food. I'll go and make sure the horses are ready," he said.

"What's the matter with him?" asked d'Artagnan, looking after Athos's retreating form in some confusion.

"Oh come on, you've got to feel for the man," said Porthos loudly. "More than five years, trying to substitute brandy for women, and he still hasn't worked it out." Athos broke his stride for a split second, then squared his shoulders and carried on walking as though he hadn't heard a word. Aramis elbowed Porthos sharply in the ribs.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"Kicking a fellow musketeer when he's down. You're supposed to save that for the Red Guard, and other lowlife."

None of the men seemed inclined to expand on this interesting hint about Athos's obvious discomfort at Joan's presence. Asking outright was tempting, but the guarded expression on Aramis's face suggested that she wouldn't get much of an answer. So Joan sat down on the bench and helped herself to a small breakfast of bread and jam. Going to the farm and back in a day was a long, hard ride and she doubted there would be much time for food on the way.

She was just swallowing the final mouthful when Athos and a pair of stable boys appeared with the horses. Four of them were exactly the sort of animals she imagined a musketeer riding, skittish and excited, their ears pricked, eager to get going. The fifth horse shuffled along, his eyes three-quarters closed, nose somewhere around his knees and ears flopping sleepily sideways. When the little group came to a standstill, he put his head right down and began to doze. Obviously her companions were taking no chances she had exaggerated her skills on horseback.

Although the sleepy-looking horse had no intention of exerting himself any more than necessary, he was every bit as fit as the other mounts, and a very comfortable ride. Joan managed to scramble inelegantly into the saddle (in spite of the dratted breeches) and found she didn't need to do anything but stay put. Her horse plodded along, keeping pace with its stable mates, needing neither guidance nor encouragement. The roads were fairly dry, and there was little other traffic about at such an early hour.

They rode for what felt like an eternity, making just a couple of brief stops to rest the horses. The musketeers stayed alert, but calm, sometimes bickering amiably, mostly riding in companionable silence. After the first ten miles, Joan could think of little but her aching muscles. By twenty miles, she was convinced that when she finally got the accursed breeches off, most of the skin on her inner thighs would come off with them.

She had never travelled much, before this last week. As a result, she had little knowledge of the land that lay more than a couple of miles from her home. There was a sudden burst of recognition, almost a physical blow when they crossed the little humpback bridge that led into the village near the farm.

Athos stopped his horse. "D'Artagnan and I will ride ahead, check that it's clear," he said.

Joan stared after them as they trotted up the lane. What did 'clear' mean? Free of enemies, for certain; but please God let someone have removed the bodies. She remembered finding all of them, the sense of helplessness and horror at each discovery, the despair when she realized there wasn't a single survivor. Her hands were sweating; she wiped each in turn on the skirt of her coat. It didn't help.

D'Artagnan came cantering back down the road. He stopped a couple of hundred yards away and waved them forwards.

The closer they got to the farm, the worse Joan felt. Her mouth was dry, her heart pounded in her chest and her stomach twisted with fear. She could do this. She had to. It was her duty. Treville was relying on her. The others were oblivious to her torment, ignoring her in favour of scanning their surroundings for signs of trouble.

As she dismounted and walked across the farmyard all she could see was the gaping black mouth of the doorway. Someone had made a start on repairs, so the door had been replaced on its hinges, but it still bore the dents and scuffs of the gang's violent entry.

Swallowing convulsively, she stepped into the passageway. She was panting now, and starting to get dizzy. As soon as she took her first breath inside the house, she caught the scent – that indefinable mix of old wood, damp rugs and drying herbs that would always mean 'home', overlaid with the nauseating reek of old blood. The world stopped.

She was kneeling at the foot of the wall between the yard and the lane. She had no memory of how she got there. The sharp smell of the thyme that grew in the gravel rose in the air as it was crushed by her hands and knees. Her stomach heaved and she gagged over the tiny leaves; there was nothing left to come up. Everything she had had to lose was gone already. A warm hand rubbed her back, and a calm, kind voice said "It'll be alright. You're safe with us."

Porthos. All she could see of him were his feet, clad in the sort of stout leather boots that have been through so many years of care and repair that they are less an article of footwear and more an indivisible part of their owner.

"I'm sorry," said Joan, scrubbing at her face with shaking hands.

"Don't be," said Porthos "it happens to everyone sometimes." He rested his hand on her shoulder. They stayed like that for a minute or two, Joan leaning on his warm, comforting solidity. Finally, she drew in a long breath and got to her feet. Her hands were shaking, and somewhere at the back of her mind she wanted to run. She forced the impulse away; she had come so far, put the children through so much, it would be wrong to stop now.

"Ready?" asked Porthos.

Joan nodded. He offered his hand. She took it, and held on tightly. They walked across the yard together, Porthos adjusting his stride to keep pace with her shorter steps.

Aramis was by the door, keeping watch on the lane. He reached out and gave her a comforting pat on the shoulder as she went back into the house.

D'Artagnan and Athos were standing in the study, looking lost.

"Your father knew how to hide things," said d'Artagnan. "We've searched everywhere and not found a thing." They had opened the window as wide as it would go, letting in the fresh air. Joan kept her gaze away from the dark stain by the fireplace where her father had fallen. It seemed impossible to be in this room without him, he had spent almost every waking moment in here every day she had known him. She had learned to read here, and written her first letters in a scatter of cold ashes on the hearth.

She could have found the catches for the hidden panels blindfolded. As soon as she revealed the books, Athos began packing them into the waiting saddlebags. He was perfectly polite, always the gentleman, but never seemed to look at her, let alone speak. The others treated him as a close and valued friend, even a leader, but her mere presence rendered him mute and withdrawn. She peeped at him sideways under her lashes, he was crouched on the floor, carefully packing the books, padding them with clean rags to stop any corners jabbing the horses during the journey. He looked sad, but maybe that was just the way his face always seemed when it was relaxed? The Curé in the village always looked angry when he was lost in thought, but a kinder, gentler soul she had yet to meet.

"Where are the rest of them?" said Porthos, interrupting her thoughts.

"My father's room."

Porthos came with her to fetch the last few volumes. After that, he helped her to pack a little bag of keepsakes: her mother's jewellery, Luc's treasured collection of flint arrowheads, and Clotilde's doll (a beautiful creature Captain Treville had given Joan many years before). Joan knew she would never return to the house, and couldn't bring herself to care what would become of it now. Whatever this place was to her, it was no longer home.

Once the saddlebags were strapped to the horses, Joan mounted and rode away without a backward glance. She wanted to remember the farm as it had been a week ago, a bustling place full of life, with young men ploughing for the spring planting and gossiping about their plans for the future while they rested. Not a hollow shell tainted with death.


	9. Chapter 9

Athos rode at the front of the little group, feeling the warm spring sun on his leather-clad back. The weather had been fine for the last week, so the roads were unusually good for the time of year. If they met no significant delays, they should have no trouble reaching Paris by nightfall.

As they rode through the village, the peasants came out of their houses to watch. One or two of the children pointed at their fine horses, but to his relief no one showed any sign of recognising Joan.

Even with his back to her he was acutely aware of the young woman. A constant distraction, endlessly pulling his thoughts away from their proper course. Porthos had no idea how wrong he was; Athos didn't use drink as a substitute for female companionship. He drank in a desperate attempt to quell the swirling mass of pain, regret and (worst of all) happy memories that constantly dominated his every waking moment. Every unattached woman he met set him into a hopeless downward spiral of if only and maybe. If only he'd never met his wife, if only he'd listened to Thomas, if only he'd been a better man… Maybe this time it could be different? That was the most hopeless idea of all. The last time he had thought for a brief instant there could be a chance of happiness, he had found himself on his knees, begging the Cardinal for mercy while the smell of smoke from Ninon's pyre drifted in from the courtyard. Never again. Tomorrow Treville would set her up with a suitable household and he would never be troubled by her presence again.

She wasn't even especially pretty. Soft mid-brown hair with a slight curl to it, worn loose down her back when she arrived at the garrison. Nobody had ever taught her the sophisticated styles the ladies wore at Court. Rather tall for a woman, with unfashionably tanned skin, warm brown eyes and a sweet smile, when Aramis managed to coax one out of her. She hadn't lied about being able to ride, and had borne the rigours of the journey without complaint. She was obviously uncomfortable in the male clothing Aramis (damn the man and his sense of humour) had persuaded her to wear. It rather suited her though, showing off her trim waist and long legs. He was doing it again! With some difficulty, he wrenched his thoughts away from his unwanted companion and back to more military matters.

They had reached the edge of the fields that surrounded the village. The road passed into the cool shade of the woods. The trees were dense, mostly oak and hazel that had been coppiced for firewood and charcoal. It was impossible to get a clear line of sight for more than a few yards off the road in any direction. A good place for an ambush. He strained his eyes and ears, trying to catch any sign of danger.

Two miles further on they were still in the woods, but the terrain had changed. The road ran along the bottom of a narrow valley with steep, rocky sides. The horses plodded along, mere shadows of the eager, prancing beasts that had left the garrison this morning. The extra weight of the books, and the many miles they had already covered were taking their toll on the animals' remaining stamina.

A twig snapped somewhere up the slope on the right, a little way ahead. Athos stared at the spot, careful not to turn his head in that direction – no sense in giving away a possible advantage, let the enemy think they were still unaware. He slowed his horse just a fraction, so he could talk with the others.

"There's at least one man ahead on the right," he said, keeping his voice soft and calm.

"And several more behind," replied Aramis.

This was not a good place to be ambushed. If they were surrounded, the attackers would have the advantage of higher ground, and the concealment of the trees. They needed to find a better place to make a stand. He thought back to this morning, when they had taken this same road to the farm. He needed somewhere nearby – the horses wouldn't make it far if they had to gallop.

This was why he'd picked Joan's horse. The animal was notorious for its determination to stick with its stable mates at all times. There would be no need to ask one of the others to lead the beast, so all of them were free to fight.

"About a quarter of a mile, on the left, the overhang in the cliffs. Do you remember?" he asked the others. Three tense answering smiles showed they did. "Make for it as soon as I give the word."

For the first time, he looked at Joan. Her face was pale, but determined and she had a good grip on her saddle. There could be only moments before their opponents would start to attack. No time to waste.

"Now!" shouted Athos, urging his horse to run. The poor beast plunged forward valiantly, lumbering into an exhausted gallop that felt like a fraction of its normal speed.

A fusillade of shots rang out. He spared a glance at the others and found that they all seemed to be unscathed. That was excellent, as it would take their opponents time to reload.

Shouts came from behind them, and the noise of many men crashing through the undergrowth, abandoning stealth in favour of speed.

"There!" Athos shouted, pointing at the overhang as it came into view around the next bend. The valley sides were almost vertical here; too steep to climb. The overhang in the cliff would stop any attacks from higher up the slope, and the jumble of boulders below it offered at least some defensive cover.

As they reached the overhang, Athos could hear the attackers pounding up the road behind them. There seemed to be a lot of footsteps, but nobody had come round the corner yet.

Athos turned to Joan. "Take the horses, go behind the rocks, and stay down," he said. He didn't have time to see whether or not she obeyed.

The attackers were in sight now, twelve of them, running at full tilt round the bend. They hadn't stopped to get their horses, recognising that the musketeers' animals wouldn't be capable of covering any distance before they foundered. As they saw Athos and his companions standing among the rocks, the group spread out to make a harder target for pistols. Not complete amateurs then.

There would only be time for one shot between the time when the attackers came within range, and when they got close enough for hand-to-hand combat. Athos stood calmly, sighting along the barrel at his chosen target.

He loved this part of a fight, even though he knew it was wrong to feel that way. Everything was so simple right now. All the distractions, the nagging doubts and fears he normally had to live with had vanished, leaving him free to focus on this moment. It was freedom, of a sort.

The attackers crossed the invisible line that marked the limit of the accurate range of the pistols. Aramis fired first, naturally – he was always confident of making his shot count. One of the men dropped. Eleven left. Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan fired within a second of each other. Three more down, eight left.

With a third of the men down, a simple mob would probably have broken and run away at this point. These men though, kept coming. Professionals—a fight with many casualties meant the spoils were divided into fewer portions. They knew enough to keep on once the guns had fired too; there would be no chance to reload. Athos hung his pistol on his belt and drew his sword and dagger.

Nothing mattered but this fight. He was aware of his companions, d'Artagnan to his left, Porthos on his right with Aramis beyond him. Their opponents were close now, an unappealing bunch who looked as though they had been dragged from the darkest back-alleys in Paris. The failed ambush had cost the gang more than the advantage of surprise—they were winded from giving chase. Every advantage would help.

Athos stood with his back to one of the great limestone boulders, waiting for the fight to come to him. Away to the right, he heard the clash of steel on steel as Aramis and Porthos engaged their opponents. The two men in front of him paused for a moment, then rushed him.

They were fast, and strong. Athos deflected their first swings, helped by the way the two men crowded each other as they tried to reach him. The one on the left, facing his dagger-hand, was the more aggressive, pressing his attack, trying to exploit the advantage of his longer weapon. Athos held them off, probing for weaknesses. He couldn't mount an attack on one, without leaving himself open to the other man.

There was a shout of pain from his left, d'Artagnan's voice, followed by the sound of a body hitting the loose stones. The man on the left, glanced toward the sound. Athos struck, slashing the dagger past the man's sword, cutting a long slice through his belly. The man shrieked as he fell, and Athos had to push past his fallen body, his feet slipping a little on stones suddenly slick with fresh blood.

Now he had only one opponent. Time to finish this. He could hear horrible rasping breaths coming from his left. D'Artagnan? He knew that sound, a sucking wound in the chest. It wouldn't be long. He wanted to comfort the lad, if he was dying.

The footing was treacherous, soft dusty earth and loose stones on the steep slope. If he slipped, he was as good as dead. His opponent, whip-thin with a straggly mop of greasy black hair, circled him warily with his eyes never leaving Athos's sword. Athos attacked, twisting his sword past the other's frantic defence and into the man's chest.

Aramis had just killed one man; he wouldn't take long to defeat the other. Porthos was hard-pressed by three men. Athos took the nearest of Porthos's attackers from behind, slitting his throat. As the next turned to meet the new threat, he found Athos's sword in his guts. Porthos took care of the other.

Aramis came over, breathing hard. "Invigorating," he said, wiping his blades clean on a scrap of rag before he sheathed them.

"D'Artagnan's wounded," said Athos. As he led the way to the other side of the overhang, he prepared himself for the sight of the lad's body. No one with a wound in the lungs lived for long.

Rounding the boulders, he found Joan, crouched over d'Artagnan. Her face was smeared with blood, which had soaked her cuffs and the cloth she was pressing to the wound in d'Artagnan's thigh. D'Artagnan was pale, and seemed to be unconscious, but was unquestionably alive. Three feet away sprawled the body of the last attacker, with a great wound on his chest.

"I can't stop the bleeding completely," said Joan. "If you could tie a tourniquet, I think it would work."

Aramis hurried up to help. Once he'd applied the tourniquet and examined the wound, he looked up at the other musketeers. "More needlework," he said.


	10. Chapter 10

Joan stood behind the rocks with the exhausted horses. Each animal was lathered with sweat, breathing hard and trembling with exhaustion. She wished that she could do something for them, but there was no space to walk them so they could cool off gently, nor even a wisp of grass to rub them down.

She found a place where she could peer between the boulders and see down the road. For a wonderful moment it was clear, and she allowed herself to hope that their enemies had given up the chase. Then the crowd of men rounded the bend.

She counted them, twice, as they raced toward the rocks. Twelve men. The musketeers were outnumbered three to one. Her father's stories of men whose feats of valour could surmount such impossible odds seemed ridiculous—fairy tales for a credulous child. She looked around. This time there was nowhere to hide, no concealed path to safety. The musketeers would die here, and so would she.

At least she'd got the children to Paris. Captain Treville was a man of honour; he would see they were well cared for.

From her hidden vantage point she could only see d'Artagnan. The others were somewhere to her right, concealed by the rocks. Porthos, with his scarred face, who noticed when children were hungry, who held her hand while she collected keepsakes from the house where her family had died. Aramis who had managed to persuade her to wear these ridiculous clothes—how would William manage without him to send letters back home?

She flinched at the gunfire, but couldn't see if it had done any good—the attackers weren't visible from her hiding place now they were closer. She didn't want to see d'Artagnan die, but she had to know when her turn was coming, so she kept her eyes on him as he carefully replaced his pistol on his belt and drew his sword and dagger. A man came into view, running up the slope towards d'Artagnan, a tall blonde fellow clad in a distinctive dark green doublet. She'd seen that doublet before, back at the farm, the day her family had been murdered. Her last hope of a miracle shrivelled and died. These were not some stray band of brigands picking on any travellers they met—they were the Chevaliers' hired killers, come to finish the job.

The fight was quick, and shockingly brutal. A flurry of blows almost too fast to follow. Even her inexperienced eyes could see how unevenly matched they were—d'Artagnan might have been practising in the courtyard at the garrison, he looked so calm, while the other man seemed increasingly desperate, trying to bring his greater reach and strength to bear. Suddenly d'Artagnan lunged past his opponent's defence, running his sword deep into the man's chest. For a fraction of a second they stood, d'Artagnan slim and strong as ever, the other man looking almost bewildered as a great red stain spread over the green cloth.

As his knees buckled, the man made one last wild swing with his sword, slicing d'Artagnan's thigh. D'Artagnan shouted, and dropped his blade. His face was pale and a steady trickle of blood ran between his shaking fingers. She ran forwards, tugging at the scarf William had wrapped round her neck.

"Lie down," she commanded as she reached him.

"S'alright. Be fine in a moment," he said. He was starting to sway.

"Lie down," she repeated. "You're making it worse, standing up like that."

She won the argument when he fainted, landing on top of her and knocking her flat. She struggled out from under him, laid him as flat as she could on the rocks and pressed her scarf on the wound. A few feet away, the man in the green doublet was noisily breathing his last.

Time stretched on, every second dragging interminably. The bleeding seemed to be slowing a little, and the man in green had finally gone silent. So had the sounds of fighting from the other side of the rocks. Joan took one hand off the wound and stretched towards d'Artagnan's dagger. It was just near enough and she managed to hold it in her blood-slicked trembling fingers. She was no fool—she had no chance against a fully-armed man—but at least she could try.

The other three musketeers came hurrying round the rocks, Athos at the front of the little group. As he saw Joan and d'Artagnan, and realised his friend was alive, his face was transformed from its normal expression of grumpy reserve to a warm, genuine smile of relief and happiness. Joan could finally understand what his comrades saw in him.

"I can't stop the bleeding completely," she said. "If you could tie a tourniquet, I think it would work."

Aramis hurried over. He produced a short length of rope from one of his pockets and fastened it tightly around his comrade's thigh. Then he moved Joan's hands gently aside and pulled away the blood-soaked scarf so he could examine the wound. "More needlework," he said. D'Artagnan groaned and tried to raise his head. "Easy now, just stay down," said Aramis, reinforcing his command with a firm hand on his friend's chest.

"How bad is it?" asked D'Artagnan.

"A few stitches needed, that's all. You were lucky," said Aramis. D'Artagnan's hand moved to investigate the improvised bandage and rope tourniquet around his thigh. Aramis slapped his questing fingers away. "Don't touch. I don't want you making it any worse."

"Can you work on him here?" asked Athos.

"I'd rather not," Aramis said. "The light isn't good, and he'll need to keep still for a few hours afterwards."

"There's an inn about half a mile further on," said Porthos. "Noticed it on the way down. It didn't look that big, but it's the best we're going to get."

Aramis and Porthos busied themselves with the construction of a stretcher. Judging from the speed with which it took shape, Joan concluded that they had had a lot of practice.

For lack of anything better to do, she saw to the horses, checking their hooves and loosening their girths. No one had suggested riding any further today—they would be lucky if their mounts were capable of much work tomorrow.

Athos, with an air of brisk efficiency belied by the look of distaste on his face, was searching the bodies of their fallen opponents. "Nothing," he said. "No papers. Nothing to show where they came from."

"I recognise that one," said Joan, pointing at the man in the green doublet. "Well, I recognise his clothes anyway. He was one of the men…" her voice tailed off as her throat tightened. She gulped and tried to blink back the sudden tears.

Athos looked at her. Really properly looked, his eyes holding hers. "He was one of the men who attacked your farm? Are you sure?"

Joan took a deep, steadying breath. "I didn't get a close look at him, but this is a simple district. Not much call for fancy green doublets here."

"So this wasn't a random attack then. They knew we'd been to the farm, and they targeted us," said Athos. He held her gaze for a moment longer, then seemed to realise what he was doing and turned away abruptly.

"Do you think this is all of them, or were there more, back at the farm?" asked Porthos, as he tugged on the ropes binding the stretcher, testing the knots.

"Probably all, I think. I didn't stop to count," said Joan, suddenly tired of all the questions. "I was busy running away."

Aramis sighed. "Lax, very lax. You'll never make a musketeer you know, if you don't try harder than that."

Joan turned to glare at him and saw his wide smile. He looked like Luc, trying to charm his way out of trouble when she'd caught him up to mischief. "How can you laugh at a time like this?" she demanded, looking at D'Artagnan, still lying on the ground waiting for the stretcher to be ready.

"Because it's much more fun than the alternative," Aramis replied. Athos snorted.

"This is good enough," said Porthos, tightening the last knot on the stretcher. Let's not stay around here any longer. The company's rubbish, and I'm getting hungry."

"What do we do about them?" Joan asked, gesturing at the body of the man in the green doublet. The blood on his chest had started to dry in the warm spring sunshine and a swarm of flies buzzed hungrily about his cooling body.

Athos looked at her in surprise. Maybe no one had asked about that sort of mundane detail before. But surely the musketeers couldn't be in the habit of leaving the corpses of anyone foolish enough to get in their way littering every roadside they travelled?

"We'll tell the innkeeper. The locals will be happy enough to deal with the bodies, in exchange for whatever valuables they can find," said Athos. Joan noticed that he looked at her properly now when he talked to her. He didn't look comfortable with her presence, but at least he wasn't ignoring her altogether. It was hard to see why such a formidable soldier was so discomforted by someone like herself. She couldn't even blame the stupid clothes, because he'd been treating her oddly since the moment they'd first met back at the garrison.

D'Artagnan shuffled himself onto the stretcher, with Aramis fussing beside him supporting the injured leg so it didn't start bleeding again.

"I'm sure you didn't use to be this heavy," said Porthos as he and Aramis lifted the stretcher. "What's Constance been feeding you?"

Aramis chuckled. "I think she's been far too busy to think of feeding him."

"Hey!" D'Artagnan blushed and started to struggle up onto his elbows.

"Lie down," said Athos. "Remember what I said about your feelings getting the better of you. And you two, stop teasing him. You'd never say such a thing in front of Madame Bonacieux anyway—there wouldn't be enough left of the pair of you to feed a crow."

"Fair point," said Aramis as he and Porthos picked their way down the slope to the road.

In a matter of minutes, they had switched from being professional soldiers fighting for their lives, to a group of old friends exchanging easy banter on an ordinary day. Joan remembered the farmhands at home, how the older ones would tease young René about his sweetheart in the village. He'd saved almost all his pay every week, trying to amass enough to impress the girl's sceptical father. Tears pricked her eyes and she blinked to clear them.

"Can you manage all the horses?" asked Athos. "They're too tired to give you any trouble, and it would be best if I kept my hands free." Joan gathered up the loose reins, her gaze darting around the surrounding trees, trying to pick out shapes and movement among the dense leaves and shifting shadows. What if there were more men out there, waiting their chance? With one man wounded, and two carrying a stretcher, their little party was much more vulnerable than before. The leather felt slippery as her hands began to sweat.

"Just a precaution," said Athos. "I didn't mean to alarm you." Too late for that thought Joan, as she followed Aramis and Porthos, with the horses shuffling reluctantly behind her.

It was slow going. Porthos and Aramis grumbled and bickered about the weight of the stretcher every few steps. The horses jostled each other, and were reluctant to go anywhere at all. Joan coaxed them along for what seemed like hours. The shadows the trees cast on the road were lengthening as the afternoon wore on, and it was getting hotter. Sweat soaked the tight linen wrappings William had wound around Joan's chest, making her skin itch. The infernal breeches, still squeaking with every step felt as though they had rubbed every scrap of skin from her thighs and were now working their way to the bone.

Athos, his hand on his pistol, shifting position constantly within their little group to keep the best watch he could on the surrounding trees, showed no sign of discomfort. She couldn't help watching him, fascinated by the easy grace of his movements. Sometimes she even caught him watching her in turn. The third time their eyes met, she risked a small smile and was rewarded with a momentary twitch of his lips, before he returned his attention to the woods.

When they rounded a corner and saw the little inn, Joan almost wept with relief. Even the horses picked up their pace, walking eagerly toward the familiar scent of a stable. As soon as they reached the yard, Joan handed the reins to the two ostlers and stepped behind the others, keeping her head down. With tendrils of hair escaping from the braid concealed under her hat, and the scarf that had encircled her neck lost to D'Artagnan's wound, she was sure her disguise, hardly convincing at the best of times, wouldn't fool anyone who gave her more than a cursory glance. From the way that Porthos and Aramis shuffled aside to make room behind the stretcher, she wasn't alone in her opinion.

"I'll go and get us some rooms," said Athos. He turned to Joan, his face grave. "I'm sorry, but we won't reach Paris tonight."

Joan stared at him in astonishment. "I know that," she said. "I'm not an idiot." With exhausted horses and a wounded man, did he really think she was stupid enough to believe they could go any further today?

Athos looked as if he were about to say something, then changed his mind. He stared at her, making Joan all too aware of the dirt and sweat on her face. "My apologies," he said at last, then turned and hurried away.

He returned a couple of moments later, frowning. "They have one room free. We'll have to make the best of it."

"One!" said Aramis, with a startled sideways glance at Joan. "What about the other guests. Can't you pay them to share?"

"Or tell them we're on the King's business, and make 'em," rumbled Porthos. "It's not like it isn't true."

Athos glared. "I'm sure the young gentlemen in the hunting party will be only too delighted to share with the nuns."

"Ah, I see the problem," said Aramis. Then he brightened. "If there are nuns, then surely Joan can share with them?"

Athos didn't speak, he just looked at Joan standing there in her borrowed breeches.

"Oh," said Aramis.


	11. Chapter 11

Thank you to the people who have left reviews - it's lovely to get some feedback.

* * *

The small room held nothing but a plain wooden bed, its straw mattress covered by a single blanket. There was enough clear floor space to walk around three sides of the bed, and Athos's hasty inspection revealed no obvious signs of infestation by fleas or bedbugs.

"By the window," said Aramis as he and Porthos lugged the stretcher through the narrow door. "I need all the light I can get."

Aramis sent Athos and Porthos to fetch brandy and all the candles the landlady was willing to spare, then banished them from the room. "I need space to work, and you'll just get in the way. But I think you'd better stay," he said, pointing at Joan who stood in the corner feeling awkward and out of place. While they were still on the road she'd at least felt useful leading the horses; here at the inn she was simply another problem they could do without.

"Can I help?" asked Joan. Better to be useful than a burden.

"Yes, come over here. You can hold the candle for me. It needs to be as close as possible, but be careful—hot wax will not improve d'Artagnan's condition. And if you set my hair on fire, the ladies of Paris will never forgive you."

"All of them?" said D'Artagnan. He'd drunk most of the bottle of brandy and his speech was slurred. "Even you haven't got that far."

Aramis grinned. "Some of them are content to admire me from a distance." He grasped Joan's wrist, carefully moving her hand until the candle was positioned exactly where he wanted it. "Perfect. Now I can stitch, while D'Artagnan here remembers that he is a brave musketeer who mustn't look like a weakling in front of a beautiful woman."

"Does saying that sort of thing ever work?" asked Joan.

Aramis shrugged and smiled. "Not often, no. But it never hurts to try." And he started to unwrap the makeshift bandage.

TMTMTM

Athos and Porthos sat at a small table in the main parlour. The nuns had taken the small private room—muffled singing came from behind the firmly closed door. It wasn't the right time of day for a normal service, but they were probably trying to drown out the raucous and bawdy banter of the hunting party. The young nobleman and his cronies, all clad in bright coats more suited to a Parisian salon than this country retreat, occupied most of the room. They huddled round the tables, periodically calling for more wine, and flirting extravagantly with the serving maids who brought it. They were all drunk, not staggering yet, but at that bright-eyed clumsy stage that meant a hangover was already a certainty.

"I'm bored," cried a fellow in an eye-watering doublet (mustard yellow with elaborate green and orange embroidery—Athos hoped his tailor had charged extra for the professional embarrassment of creating such a monstrosity). "Where's the cards?"

Porthos twitched. Athos put a hand on his wrist. "Don't even think about it."

"No harm in being friendly. Taking an interest in our fellow travellers."

"It's been a long day. I am not taking on ten drunks when they notice you have half the deck up your sleeve."

"Just one hand."

"No."

Porthos slumped back in his seat, admitting defeat. Best not to leave him alone with the card game in progress though.

"Done well today, hasn't she?" said Porthos.

Oh God, not now. Sat in an inn, surrounded by men enjoying what smelled like acceptable wine, when all he could have was one tankard of ale because he was on duty. The last thing he needed was another kindly-meant talk about a woman. Porthos and Aramis thought he should forget Anne and move on, and had told him so at great length (d'Artagnan had more sense and had kept his ideas on the subject to himself). Maybe this time he could put Porthos off? Instead of replying, Athos gave a non-committal grunt and took a swig of ale.

"You've got to do something about this," said Porthos, determined not to take the hint.

"About what?"

"Do you think we didn't notice? You spent all day not looking at her. You were so busy not looking at her that ten men got behind you in the woods without you noticing."

Athos tightened his grip on his tankard. "I don't want to talk about it."

"You never want to talk about anything. It took us five years to even find out your _name_. Look, she's a nice girl. Just be friendly, you never know…"

Athos's hand wandered towards his chest, reaching for the locket that wasn't there any more. "I can't."

"Why not?" demanded Porthos. "She's not Aramis's style, d'Artagnan's taken, I won't stand in your way…" In fairness, two of those statements were true. Porthos was a man of his word, and d'Artagnan had no eyes for any woman but Constance Bonacieux, no matter how difficult her husband made things. The woman wasn't born though, who wasn't of interest to Aramis—in Athos's experience, the only thing that varied was how far his friend was prepared to take things.

"I'm married," he said, trying to discourage any further discussion. If he gripped the tankard any harder, he would bruise his fingers. He made a determined effort to relax his hand.

"Oh for pity's sake. She's gone. By now, she's probably dead for real."

"We don't know that for certain." Though there had been many times when he had been tempted to try to find out.

"Nor does anyone else. Nobody but us knows you were ever married, and we won't tell." Growing up in the Court of Miracles had left Porthos with a much more flexible attitude to some matters of honour and morality than the rest of them. His friends were working on this, but progress was slow. "Besides, how do you even know that you were the first? It might never have been legal to begin with."

Athos rocked back in his seat. In all his endless miserable contemplation of the whole damned mess, he'd never considered that possibility. He could be free; but he had nothing left to go back to. "No," he said, his voice so soft that Porthos had to lean closer to hear him over the ruckus from the card game. "I was the first to marry her, I know that much." That was why she hated him so, he understood that now. For a few brief months, she'd had a different life, turning her back on her past. If he'd been a better man and given her the confidence to trust him with the truth… The ale was bitter on his tongue, and not nearly strong enough.

Aramis strode up to the table, interrupting his brooding.

"All done. Ten stitches. It wasn't as bad as it looked at first."

"Will he be able to travel?" asked Athos. One night at the inn was unavoidable, given the state of the horses. If d'Artagnan wasn't fit to ride in the morning, they'd have to leave him behind.

"As long as we take it slowly," said Aramis.

"Can we see him?" asked Porthos, starting to get up. Aramis put a hand on his arm.

"I'd leave it for a bit, if I were you," he said, his eyes crinkled in amusement. "Our Gascon isn't used to that amount of brandy. He was throwing it all back up when I left."

"Where's Joan?" said Athos. Her name came easily to his lips this time, which surprised him.

"Holding the basin for him," said Aramis. "She's good," he continued, his eyes fixed on Athos's face. "We should keep her."

Duty be damned. Athos needed more ale.


	12. Chapter 12

D'Artagnan groaned and rolled onto his back again. Joan sighed, then bent over and heaved his limp body until he lay on his side, his head carefully positioned next to the basin beside the bed. For someone so slender, he was surprisingly heavy.

"You have to stay on your side," she told him patiently. "Otherwise you could choke."

"Yes Constance," he said. His hand flailed around for a moment, before he managed to grasp hers, pulling it up towards his lips.

"I'm not Constance," said Joan as she pulled her hand away. Constance must be his sweetheart, the woman Aramis and Porthos had been teasing him about earlier.

His eyes opened and her peered up at her, taking a couple of moments to focus on her face. "You're not Constance! What are you doing here?"

"We're at the inn. You had a fight, and you're wounded. Aramis stitched your leg, remember?"

"My head hurts," he said, rubbing his forehead and wincing.

"That would be from the brandy."

"Porthos said it would make me feel better."

"If you'd drunk less of it, he might have been right."

He started to laugh, then clutched his head again. "Ow. Does Athos feel like this every morning?" He stared at Joan, waiting for her to answer.

"I don't know," she said. Of the four musketeers, Athos was the one she knew least about and found hardest to understand. "Does he drink a lot?"

"Lot more than this. More than all of us. We take care of him."

Joan frowned. Life in a household run for the benefit of her father and old Jacques had given her far too much experience with men in every stage of intoxication, but Athos didn't act like a drunkard. After he recovered from his stroke, Jacques had taken to the bottle, and could barely stir in the morning without a large cup of wine. Then he'd needed regular drinks throughout the day. Jacques wasn't normally staggering-drunk, like d'Artagnan was now, but his need for a steady supply of wine wasn't something he could hide from people who spent much time with him. She hadn't noticed Athos carrying a flask on the ride. "He seems sober to me," she said at last.

"That's 'cos he's on duty. Never drunk on duty," said d'Artagnan, enunciating every word with great care. He raised his hand and after a moment of intense concentration managed to point at her. "Athos is the best soldier you will ever meet. Ever."

"I'm sure he is," said Joan, wishing the brandy had made him either less talkative, or more coherent. Perhaps if she humoured him, he would fall asleep.

"Brothers, that's what we are," he said, emphasising each word with a solemn wag of his finger. "Take care of each other. And you."

The clean linen bandage Aramis had used to cover the stitches proved his point. Joan patted him on the arm. "I know. Thank you."

"My head hurts," he moaned again. His arm fell back onto the straw mattress, his eyes closed and he finally fell asleep.

Joan perched on the edge of the bed, ready to catch him if he started to roll again. He began to snore, softly at first, then louder. A constant racket came from downstairs, clattering dishes, rushing footsteps, loud cheerful male voices and the occasional feminine squeal or giggle from a serving maid. The scent of baking bread and roasting meat tormented her—breakfast at the garrison had been a long time ago, and she had been too nervous to eat on the way to the farm.

She heard footsteps in the passage outside, and half-rose in alarm. She could lie on the floor behind the bed, but the room didn't have any good hiding places. "It's only me," said Porthos's cheerful voice and she sat back down.

Porthos came in, carefully shutting the door behind him and looked at d'Artagnan, snoring on the bed. He grinned. "Sleeping like a baby."

"Passed out drunk," Joan corrected him. "You must have known he couldn't hold that much brandy. Why on earth did you tell him to drink the whole bottle?"

"Because the hangover will slow him down tomorrow," said Porthos, his face solemn. "Bit high-strung, our d'Artagnan. Wants to prove himself."

"And you don't want him rushing about doing anything stupid when he's wounded."

"It's easier than trying to stop him, once he's got going." He turned to her. "Now, apart from checking on him, I came up to see if you were hungry."

"I'm starving," said Joan.

"Best if you don't come down. Too many people about. I'll bring you something."

He returned a few minutes later carrying a rough platter loaded with fresh bread and roast pork in one hand, and a tankard of ale in the other. "Sorry about the ale, but we never drink wine on the road, and I don't like the look of the well."

Was the rule about wine on the road to do with Athos? "It's fine," said Joan. "Thank you for remembering me."

Porthos sat down against the wall, stretching his long legs out in front of him. "If you get hungry on the road, just ask me. I've always got something to eat with me."

"Why?" asked Joan. "Do you get more hungry than the others?"

"No," he shifted a bit, looking uncomfortable. "The others are proper gentlemen. Well not Athos, he's…" he stopped himself, thought a moment, and continued. "What I mean is, when they were growing up, they knew where the next meal was coming from."

Joan didn't dare ask what he had been going to say about Athos. Did 'not a proper gentlemen' mean that he was a criminal, or a noble? "But you didn't have enough food?"

"I grew up in the Court of Miracles," he said, searching her face to see her reaction.

"Where?" said Joan. "I don't know Paris, remember."

"It's a rookery—a slum," he said. "The biggest in Paris. Thieves, whores, beggars. Loads of people, all crammed in together. Not a lot of food to go around."

Did he expect her to recoil, after all the kindness he had shown her and the children? "You must be an exceptional soldier, to rise from such a childhood to become a Musketeer." He looked pleased, and relaxed again, settling his shoulders into a more comfortable position against the rough plaster of the wall.

"Growing up in the Court is a better start than you'd think, for some of it. It teaches you to fight, and to think on your feet."

It taught him how to survive. How to grab life with both hands and cling on, no matter what. A lesson she'd learned herself, this last week. "D'Artagnan said you're like brothers, the four of you."

He shrugged. "True enough, I suppose. Always getting each other in trouble, and getting each other out of it."

There wasn't anything for her to do in this inn. Nothing but stay in the room and keep d'Artagnan from falling off the bed in his drunken stupor anyway. She'd grown up on stories of her father's bold exploits, and some new tales would be nice. "Tell me about your adventures."

He frowned. "I'm not sure they're fit for a lady."

"They can't be worse than the ones my father used to tell," she said. "Go on, just something to pass the time."

"Alright. Let me see. Well this one time Athos and Aramis were on guard duty at the Louvre..."

TMTMTM

Athos lingered in the downstairs parlour as long as he could. The nuns remained in their private room with the door firmly shut, mostly staying quiet but singing whenever the noise from the hunting party got too loud. The would-be hunters (who were unlikely to be capable of catching anything in the foreseeable future) had become increasingly rowdy as the evening wore on, but the wine had taken its toll in the end. Two were passed out at the card table, another was lying on the floor in a puddle of his own vomit, and the rest had staggered off upstairs, either alone or accompanied by one of the serving maids.

Aramis lounged at the other end of the table, regarding the scene with an air of amused sophistication. A serving maid appeared and began to clear away their dirty plates. "Thank you, Claudine," said Aramis with a charming smile. The girl simpered and giggled, peeping at Aramis through lowered eyelashes.

"Have you learned all of their names, or is she special?" asked Athos as the girl returned to the kitchens, with many hopeful backward glances at Aramis.

"Just being polite," said Aramis, avoiding the question. "Anyway, making friends with the servants is always useful—remember that time in Dijon?"

Athos glared. "We agreed never to mention it again."

"But you and d'Artagnan looked so charming…" began Aramis, breaking off as Athos started to rise from his seat. "Alright," he held up his hands. "I'll stop. But goodness knows what Porthos has told her by now."

"What! No, he wouldn't..."

"Porthos? With an appreciative audience, and nothing better to do? We'll be lucky if Dijon is the worst of it."

Athos lowered his head into his hands.

"Look, I'm sure whatever tales Porthos tells her will paint you in a suitably heroic light. By now she probably thinks you're Sir Lancelot stepped straight from a courtly romance."

Beating Aramis to a pulp was not the answer. If he did, he'd have two wounded men to get back to the garrison. The idea was tempting though. "Why can't you and Porthos leave me alone?"

"To pickle your liver in peace after every mission?"

Athos opened his mouth to object, then thought a moment. "Yes," he said at last. Reduced to monosyllables, God he sounded like a spoilt boy.

"Because we don't want to find you dead in a gutter one morning," said Aramis. "Think of Porthos—he'd be distraught."

Athos snorted.

"And we don't want Milady to win."

Athos clenched his fists at the mention of her name. "We banished her. She lost."

"The Cardinal lost. I don't think she cared very much about his game. Her aims were much more personal." Aramis's expression was serious now.

"She wanted me dead. I'm not."

"You will be, if you carry on this way."

Athos thought about that last drinking session. Three days, they told him, and he barely remembered more than a couple of hours. He'd only drunk two tankards of watery ale tonight, and he could _feel_ the wine in the half-empty bottles on the other tables calling him. How long would it be before he couldn't resist, even when he was on duty? He rubbed his face, and looked at Aramis. "What do you suggest?"

Aramis sat straighter, his eyes wide with astonishment. He and Porthos had been nagging away for months now, with no luck until tonight. Perhaps it was all for show, and they didn't really have a plan after all?

"Promise me you'll stop drinking alone. I want your word on it," said Aramis. There was a little catch in his voice.

"That's all?" Athos said, surprised. "I thought you wanted me to go off and read sonnets to Joan, or something."

"That's all. Your word, Athos."

Athos looked down at the rough tabletop, which was stained and scarred by many years hard service. Like him. It wasn't as though the drink was really working any more—he either forgot everything that mattered, or was tortured by lurid visions of past horrors. And Aramis hadn't said anything about not drinking in company…

"You have my word."

Aramis grinned at him. "Thank you. Oh, and the sonnets are an excellent suggestion too—you should try it."

Athos growled, then rose and stomped off towards the staircase.

TMTMTM

Athos lay on the floor, head pillowed by his cloak, seething at the duplicity of his so-called friends. Aramis and Porthos had somehow managed to arrange matters so that they shared the bed with d'Artagnan, while Athos and Joan lay side-by-side on the floor. Two people had to sleep in this spot, true—the room was too small for any other arrangement—but there was no reason that the man on the floor had to be him.

Her uneven breathing showed that Joan wasn't asleep either. Maddening as they were, his friends were right about her—she had done well today. If Treville wanted to get her a house in Paris, that was fine. She wouldn't be living in the garrison after all. It wouldn't be too distracting. Her breathing was getting more irregular. Was she crying? The visit to the farm had been hard on her. She'd watched d'Artagnan kill a man too, and it hadn't been an easy death. He reached out and touched her hand. Her breath caught, and then her slender fingers clasped his. Her hand was small, and there were heavy calluses on the first finger and thumb caused by the endless letter-writing.

Neither of them moved any further, or spoke, but they were still holding hands when they fell asleep.


	13. Chapter 13

Joan woke when rattling buckets and barrows in the stable yard announced the ostlers had started work. For a moment, she lay there feeling the warm strength of Athos's hand in hers. Madame le Brun (who loved to regale the women of the village with stories of her glamorous past as a lady's personal maid) said that you could always tell a noble by their soft hands, untouched by any sign of hard work. Athos's hand was roughened by years of sword hilts and reins. What did that make him?

His fingers twitched, and the leather cloak beneath his head creaked as he moved. He was awake. Joan turned her head and met his eyes. His thumb caressed her fingers one last time, then he gently withdrew his hand from hers.

"Thank you," she mouthed silently, and was rewarded with one of his rare smiles. He looked past her at the bed. The others hadn't stirred at the noise from the yard—d'Artagnan was still snoring loudly and Porthos's breathing was deep and steady. Athos met her gaze again, and raised his hand to run one finger along her cheek. She closed her eyes and tilted her face towards his touch.

The bed beside her gave a loud creak, and Athos snatched his hand away. Aramis appeared, leaning over them with a broad smile on his face. "Good morning. I trust you both slept well?"

"I think I was too tired not to," said Joan, wincing at the stiff muscles in her back as she sat up. This was the second night she'd spent in these bloody breeches, and the nasty, sweaty things were not improving with time. As soon as she got back to Paris, she was going to have a bath, put on some proper clothes, and take great pleasure in burning the damned things so nobody could ever make her wear them again.

"Well you had the best spot," said Aramis, his eyes flicking suggestively between Joan and Athos. "Porthos kicks."

"Only when you steal the blanket," came a sleepy rumble from behind him.

D'Artagnan moaned. "Can't you be quiet and let me die in peace."

To Joan's astonishment, Athos grinned at d'Artagnan's complaint, almost as though he was enjoying his friend's discomfort. "No. You have to get up. We need to ride within the hour."

"I can't move."

"You can. Or shall I find say... a bucket of cold water?" asked Athos, getting to his feet.

Aramis shook his head in mock disapproval. "Very ungentlemanly, to get revenge on a fellow when he's wounded."

"When it comes to you and Porthos," said Athos "I intend to be a lot more than ungentlemanly." He reached out a hand and helped Joan to her feet, then noticed Aramis smiling at the sight and glared.

Aramis smirked back at him.

D'Artagnan staggered out of the bed, and leant heavily against the wall. His skin had a waxy look, and there were dark circles under his bloodshot eyes.

Porthos clapped the younger man on the shoulder. "You'll be fine once you have a bit of breakfast and get on the road." At the mere mention of food, d'Artagnan swallowed convulsively and turned even paler.

"Athos, you and Porthos see to the horses," said Aramis. "I want to look at d'Artagnan's wound." He nodded at Joan. "And I think I'd better do something about your hair, before anyone sees you."

Aramis unwound the bandage and inspected the stitches carefully, then touched the skin with the back of his hand. "A little swollen, but that's to be expected. No sign of heat or infection." He replaced the linen and knotted it tightly. D'Artagnan nodded in gratitude, then clutched his head.

"Now for you," said Athos smiling at Joan. She shrugged and turned her back. She had no mirror, but she knew that the neat braid she had set out with yesterday was now a tangled mess, with tendrils of long hair escaping to fall around her face. Aramis unfastened the ribbon, pulled her hair out of the plait and re-braided it with astonishing speed. "Done," he said.

Joan ran her hand over her head. The plait was neat, even and perfectly smooth. "Thank you. That's much better."

"He gets a lot of practice," said d'Artagnan.

TMTMTM

Athos finished checking the horses as the others came down to the yard. Joan's movements were stiff and awkward, and she mounted her horse with an air of resigned determination. She hadn't lied about being able to ride, but a life spent reading and writing endless letters had not prepared her for a full day in the saddle—she must be in pain. They hadn't had the chance to speak since Aramis had interrupted them back in the room. Probably that was for the best; he should never have touched her. Treville would set her up with her house, and a set of couriers for the letters, and that would be the end of it. Their paths would never cross again after today.

Poor d'Artagnan stood beside his horse, clutching the saddle as though he needed it to stay upright. He leaned with his weight on his uninjured leg, head down as he tried to keep the low morning sunlight out of his bloodshot eyes. He must have the mother of all headaches—if it wasn't for the incident with the bucket in Athos's lodging, Athos would have been tempted to send the boy back to bed with orders to follow them when he had recovered.

They set out as soon as Porthos emerged from the kitchen clutching a bag of provisions for the journey. Athos limited the pace to a relaxed walk, to spare the horses unnecessary work. He kept his eyes fixed on their surroundings, determined to keep his mind on his duty, not on Joan. Their group was too large and well-armed to be troubled by common rural footpads, and they had surely dealt with the most immediate threat yesterday. He didn't anticipate any trouble, but it was best to stay alert.

The road passed out of the woods and into open countryside, broad flower filled meadows interspersed with neat ploughed fields. His heart sank as they rode by a great swathe of forget-me-nots, the tiny blue flowers trembling in the light breeze. Was Aramis right? By avoiding his feelings, trying to drown them in wine, was he letting Milady win?

"Oh how beautiful," said Joan, interrupting his thoughts. He looked at her, resigned. She loved the bloody flowers too—it was an omen. "The larks," she said pointing upwards. "Can't you hear them? There must be dozens." Her face glowed with simple pleasure as she listened to the rippling birdsong high above their heads. He knew he was staring again, but he couldn't bring himself to care, even when he caught Aramis and Porthos exchanging knowing smiles behind Joan's back.

Five miles from Paris his horse stumbled on a loose stone in a deep wheel rut and pulled up lame. Athos dismounted and felt the gelding's leg, cursing as the animal winced in response to his gentle pressure.

"We can split up," said d'Artagnan. "I'll stay with you, and the others can ride ahead." A few hours in the saddle had helped the boy to shed his hangover. He was as bright-eyed and eager as ever, ignoring the freshly-stitched wound on his thigh.

Athos looked around. This close to Paris, the heavy traffic on the roads offered rich pickings to gangs of ruffians who were prepared to risk the gruesome consequences of capture. Two fine horses, not to mention their weapons, were a valuable prize. "No," he said "We stay together."

Five riders, and four sound horses. He could take d'Artagnan's horse, and ask the boy to ride with Joan—he was the lightest after all. And if he did that, the others would know why, and he'd never hear the end of it. Five miles. They'd be home in less than an hour. How much trouble could it be? He turned to Joan.

"I'm afraid I'll have to share your horse." She nodded and slid forward, slipping her feet from the stirrups. He mounted and took the reins, one arm crooked around her waist. Her hair had started to come loose again, stray strands escaped from under her hat and tickled his nose. He tried to ignore the press of her back against his chest as he urged the horse forward again. Riding alongside, Aramis smirked and winked at him. It was nothing. Tomorrow she would be gone, and he would be able to sink back into his old habits. Aramis would forget that stupid promise about drinking soon enough. He could manage this, if only she weren't so warm…

They clattered through the garrison gate in the middle of the afternoon. As she dismounted, Joan was almost knocked over by the headlong rush of the two children, who flung their arms around her and sobbed incoherently into her coat.

"They haven't left the gate all the time you've been gone," said Thérèse, bustling up with a welcoming smile. "I had to bring them a blanket down here last night."

"It's all right. Hush now. We're safe," said Joan softly, stroking the blond heads pressed against her chest.

Athos stood and looked at her, one last time, fixing her in his memory. Then he turned and headed off to Treville's office to deliver his report. Tomorrow she would leave the garrison for good.


	14. Chapter 14

Athos was determined to bring his dealings with Joan to a swift and decisive end. He'd walked away without a backward glance yesterday (well, perhaps he'd looked out of Treville's window a couple of times during the briefing, but he was sure nobody had noticed). He wasn't fond of goodbyes, especially when there was an appreciative audience who would gossip over every last detail for days.

He woke as soon as the first carts rumbled past his window on the way to the market, thanks to that stupid promise Aramis had extracted about his drinking. His normal wine-induced stupor was impervious to any racket short of a fire in the next building. He lay there for a few moments, contemplating the cracks in the grey plaster ceiling. It felt strange to wake in his own bed without a trace of a hangover; he was used to it on missions, but never at home. Maybe Aramis and Porthos had a point, damn them, and he really did need to cut down on the bottle for a while.

He dragged himself out of bed and headed for the public baths. Freshly washed and in a clean shirt, he felt better than he had for weeks, though his muscles ached a little after two days of hard riding. Joan must be so sore… no, best not to think about her.

He walked into the garrison yard to find no one about but a group of astonished stable boys. Musketeers were night-owls by preference: long evenings on guard duty while the king amused himself at court, and leisure time spent carousing in taverns didn't lend itself to early rising. He spared the lads one hostile glare, and then went to look at the lame gelding he'd ridden yesterday. He ran a practised hand down the injured leg – the horse was still favouring it, and the joint was warm and a little swollen. The improvement since last night was marked, and the beast should be sound again within the week. Treville wouldn't be faced with the expense of replacing it. He checked each of the horses in turn, then moved on to a minute inspection of every item of tack. Who knew when a man's life would depend on the strength of his stirrup leathers or girth?

He was a soldier, making sure that his horses and equipment were in perfect condition. He had every reason in the world to be in the garrison. Duty was the only thing that had brought him here. Besides the others wouldn't be up for hours yet, so they'd never know. It wasn't like he was going to see her.

The stable boys had stopped their normal morning jobs and were huddled in the corridor outside the tack room. He couldn't hear their conversation, but the puzzled glances in his direction gave him a shrewd idea of the subject.

The clatter of wheels and hooves on cobbles announced the arrival of a cart in the yard. The wagon was here to smuggle Joan and the children out of Paris. They were going to transfer to a coach a couple of miles from the gate and re-enter the city to start their new lives. Treville had arranged everything, and Athos had it plain he didn't want to know any of the details. As the noise of the cart stopped, and footsteps sounded in the yard, Athos froze, wracked by indecision. It was hopeless, and there seemed no point in tormenting himself with feelings that had no future. But surely, as a gentleman, he at least owed her a respectable farewell? She had been so brave.

"Ohhh," said a voice from the huddle in the corridor, in the unmistakable tones of a teenage lad who has discovered a dirty secret. A chorus of frantic shushes and smothered laughs followed. Athos closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He'd borne the teasing from Aramis and Porthos for years. Now he was an object of amusement for a gaggle of lads who were still hoping for the first fumbling attentions of whatever scrubby scullery maid they managed to bamboozle. He treated the boys to a glare that made them scatter and busy themselves with their neglected jobs, then stalked into the yard.

Joan and the children stood at the back of the cart with Aramis and Porthos. How those two had managed to drag themselves here at this ungodly hour… For a brief moment Athos hoped that he could just step back into the stable without being noticed, but Porthos waved him over with a broad grin on his face, and Aramis (who would be repaid in full measure some day soon) smirked and winked at him from behind Joan's back.

She wore a simple black dress, suitable for a widow on a long journey. The tightly-laced bodice clung around her slender waist, and though the modest neckline was in keeping with the mourning colour of the gown, the slight swell of her breasts were visible above the soft fabric. Athos swallowed and dragged his eyes up to Joan's face. Someone had pinned up her hair for her. Thérèse, he hoped, though perhaps it had been Aramis. He had no doubt that Aramis had supplied that damnably distracting dress. Joan smiled at him, and he couldn't help smiling in response. Behind Joan, Porthos grinned like a fool and elbowed Aramis in the ribs.

"I'm glad to see you again Monsieur," she said, "I didn't have the chance to thank you yesterday."

Her eyes held his, and he couldn't help wondering how she might have thanked him. If things had been different. He hadn't always been this stupid, shuffling wreck of a man. Back before he met Anne, before his marriage and his life had gone to hell, he'd known how to talk to women. He remembered how her body had felt, tucked against his chest on the ride yesterday. She'd been all bundled up in her boy's jacket and scarf then. Now her throat was bare and her hair pulled back to show the long, smooth line of her neck. Aramis coughed and Athos realised that he had been standing there, staring at her like a fool for far too long.

"No need for thanks," he said, wishing his voice didn't sound so hoarse. "I… we all did our duty." Aramis winced and cast his eyes heavenwards and Porthos shook his head in despair. Joan tilted her head slightly, staring at him as though she were trying to puzzle him out.

"Come on," said Porthos, breaking the awkward silence. "Time you were leaving." He bent and lifted the children into the wagon in turn, settling them into the gap that had been left between the crates. Someone had found Luc and Clotilde new clothes too, smart black outfits befitting their new identities as the orphaned offspring of a respectable provincial merchant.

Joan scrambled up behind the children, nestling herself between them. Aramis and Porthos lifted more crates onto the back of the wagon, hiding them from view. As soon as the rough sailcloth cover was tied in place over the load and its hidden passengers, the driver shook the reins and the wagon rumbled into motion.

She was gone. Athos rubbed his forehead with his hand. Wine would feel really good right now. Aramis hadn't said anything against drinking in company. Perhaps he could persuade them to join him?

"Duty?" said Aramis. "Was that really the best you could come up with?"

"It was true," said Athos. To hell with the drink. The sooner he could get away from this conversation, the better.

"She practically threw herself at you," Aramis continued as if Athos hadn't even replied. "A fond farewell can stand you in good stead for later." He grinned suggestively.

"There isn't going to be any later," Athos pointed out. "Treville said we're to stay away from her, remember?"

Aramis shrugged. "I thought that was just a general guideline, more than an actual order." No change there then. There were a number of bets around the garrison about whether Aramis would meet his end on the battlefield, or at the hands of an outraged husband. To Athos's knowledge, Aramis had a stake in at least three such wagers (with instructions that any winnings should go to his parish church), and he always bet on a husband.

Athos shook his head and turned away. It was going to be a very long day.

TMTMTMTM

Treville stood at ease in front of the Cardinal's desk, flanked by Athos and Porthos. Richelieu concentrated on the papers spread in front of him, shuffling the sheets, running a long, pale finger down the neat columns of figures, pausing every so often to make a note in the leather-bound ledger at his elbow. It was theatre, nothing more—another of the petty shows of power that dominated life at Court. The Cardinal ignored his visitors, and the Musketeers (well practised at waiting through interminable Royal functions) stood impassive until he was forced to notice them.

"You wanted to see me Captain?" asked Richelieu. His voice was calm, almost bored, but his eyes were as cold and alert as ever. He knew Treville would not have troubled to bring witnesses for a trivial matter.

"I have news for you concerning The Circle."

The Cardinal leaned forward, all pretence of disinterest gone. "You told me all was lost," he said as his eyes flicked to Athos and then Porthos. "Am I to understand that your... subordinates failed to obtain accurate information?"

A soft, hissing exhalation from Porthos was the only reaction to this sally.

"We have discovered that Corday trained a successor," replied Treville, ignoring the slight on his men.

"He survived the attack?" Perfect. Let the Cardinal fall into the trap of his own assumption about the gender of Corday's heir. Joan and the children had returned to the city in their new guise of Thérèse's widowed cousin and her stepchildren. The longer the Cardinal looked for a young man alone, the safer Joan would be.

"He was away from the farm at the time," replied Treville. "When he returned and found the bodies, he left immediately. The killers had stolen all the horses, so he had to walk to Paris. He identified himself when he reached me."

The Cardinal stared at Treville, his hard eyes half-closed and hostile. "Such devotion to duty shows great promise. I would like to thank him… personally."

Now for the hard part. "He insists on remaining anonymous, as before."

"Really?" The Cardinal's hands were steepled in front of him, his fingertips just brushing his neatly-trimmed beard. Such clean hands, when you considered all the blood that they had spilled. "Hardly wise, in light of recent events."

"He will continue to run The Circle. I have taken steps to establish a new base of operations." A fine new town house on the Rue des Violettes to be exact. Ten years, he and Thérèse had been dancing around each other, without commitment on either side. Now he'd had to buy her a bloody house. Joan wasn't the only one making personal sacrifices; though he had to admit Thérèse had many wonderful (if exhausting) ways of showing her gratitude.

"The risk is unacceptable," said the Cardinal. "Enemies of France have disrupted The Circle once. This time, it must be better protected." His eyes drifted to Athos, raking slowly up and down the silent figure with open contempt.

Athos had a cooler head for that sort of insult than most men, but Treville knew better than to expose a soldier to outright provocation any more than he had to. Time for a distraction.

"It wasn't an attack on France," he said. "Not deliberately." He placed the little packet of documents on the desk, sliding it across to Richelieu with one finger. "I'll leave you to deal with this as you see fit—it's not a military matter."

"Oh?" said Richelieu, making no move to touch the bundle of papers.

"It seems that a local administrator was rather indiscreet with information about the plans for His Majesty's new fleet. A family of merchants wanted to keep the knowledge to themselves, for the sake of profit."

"The love of money," said the Cardinal, shaking his head in mock sorrow. "I will take steps to… discourage such initiative in the future."

That was one less problem to worry about at least. Anyone 'discouraged' by the Cardinal was never going to be a threat again—not in this life.

"Convey my compliments to your new friend Treville. And tell him I look forward to meeting him." The tone of dismissal was unmistakable, and Treville saw no reason to prolong the interview any further.


End file.
